


A Princely Sum

by pasdecoeur



Series: witcher works [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Book: Guards! Guards!, Identity Porn, M/M, arranged marriage (sort of????), as God intended, blame mister pratchett if you must blame someone, both geralt and jaskier think ONLY and EXCLUSIVELY with their dicks, more angst than the summary implies, which is wild. when you consider this whole fic occurs within the span of twelve hours.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25300864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/pseuds/pasdecoeur
Summary: Everybody knows the going rate for dragon-slaying is, you get half the kingdom and the king’sdaughter’sson’s hand in marriage.Well, apparently, everybody except Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: witcher works [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602823
Comments: 142
Kudos: 1282
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is raw!!! unbeta'd!!!! a crime against humankind!!!!!!!!
> 
> inpsired by this bit from terry pratchett's discworld novel, guards! guards!  
> 
>
>> He almost walked into a group of men clustered around a poster nailed to the wall. It declared, indeed, that the head of the dragon that had terrorized the city would be worth A$50,000 to the brave hero that delivered it to the palace.  
> [...]  
> “Fifty thousand,” said one of them reflectively, rubbing his chin.  
> “Cheap job,” said the intellectual. “Well below the rate. Should be half the kingdom and his daughter’s hand in marriage.”  
> “Yes, but he ain’t a king. He’s a Patrician.”  
> “Well, half his Patrimony or whatever. What’s his daughter like?”  
> The assembled hunters didn’t know.  
> “He’s not married,” Vimes volunteered. “And he hasn’t got a daughter.”

i.

The tavern’s doing steady business by the time the cloaked figure shuffles up to Geralt’s table. 

“Do you mind if I…” a low voice asks, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to say no, but then he looks up, sees dark hair and blue eyes and shadows underneath them as deep as bruises. There’s something scared and tentative about his face, and before he can think better of it, Geralt nods, jerking his chin to the empty bench seat across from him. 

The stranger slides in, until his shoulder is flush with the wall, and then he exhales, slumping quietly against the soot-stained wood. Geralt signals the barmaid for another pint, which she brings soon enough. Geralt nudges it away from himself, and the stranger’s eyes widen. 

“Oh,” he says, one pale hand emerging from under the folds of the dark robe to curl around the cool, metal handle. “For me?”

Geralt arches an eyebrow and the stranger takes his meaning, ducking his head and blushing faintly. “Right,” he mutters, just beneath human hearing. “Right, well,” he adds, slightly louder, “thanks,” before drinking deeply. His cowl slips as he drains a good half of the glass in one long swallow, and Geralt stares at the way his long, elegant throat works, glowing in the moonlight, before he realizes what he’s doing and sharply looks away. 

They drink in silence for a while. The stranger shifts and fidgets, obviously antsy. He darts glances at Geralt, at the crowd, at the dark glimmering lights of the city from the window, clearly unused to keeping still. Geralt isn’t surprised when he speaks, asking, “So what brings you here?”

“The drink,” he tells him flatly.

The stranger makes a face. “By here, I meant Lettenhove.” He pauses. “Which you knew,” he realizes, then, and his voice is a little duller. “Okay. Sorry. I’ll go back to… And you can…” He falls quiet.

Geralt watches his shoulders fall and his eyes cast down and away, and feels like a damn heel. “A job,” he says abruptly, and the stranger looks up at him, eyes huge, blinking double-time.

“A job?” he repeats, confused.

“What brought me here,” Geralt clarifies awkwardly. His voice sounds rusty.

“Oh.” And then his whole face brightens like the sun, and Geralt is… absurdly charmed. “Oh,” he repeats again, as his mouth curves in a winning smile, like he knows exactly how good he looks. Well, how could he not, Geralt thinks, with a sort of fatalistic sense of attraction. “What kind of job?” the stranger asks.

“Ah…” Geralt thinks quickly. “Pest control.”

This nets him a little frown. “Pest control?”

“Down east, in the villages. They were having a problem with the…. livestock.”

The stranger purses his lips faintly. “Well,” he says stiffly. “I’d have thought the dragon was a greater danger to the livestock than…. pests, but…” He frowns some more. “I wasn’t aware pest control was an… itinerant occupation.”

Geralt shrugs broadly. “It is the way I do it,” he says, on guard now. The stranger’s vowels are crisp and fine, and his hands look soft, like someone well-educated and possibly rich. Slumming it then, tonight, on the wrong side of town. Geralt wonders what brought him here. The thrill of going somewhere dangerous? Or a need for anonymity?

That curious, interrogative frown hasn’t left the stranger’s face, but it doesn’t detract from his appearance at all, only giving him a little age, a finer edge of refinement. He’s sitting back too, now, pint glass empty save for an inch or so at the bottom, and despite the cloak, Geralt can tell he’s lean and long, pale all over. “You don’t strike me as a farmer,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Nor a scholar of agriculture from Oxenfurt.”

Geralt cracks a faint smile at the thought. “Nor that either.”

“Well, then, how…?”

Geralt shrugs again, one side of his mouth still hitched in a lazy grin. “I know about… pests.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I’m sure you do.”

Geralt nods at his empty glass. “Another?” he asks.

ii.

“So what do _you_ do?”

They’ve migrated from their table, sacrificed to a very harried-looking family of six, to a couple of barstools, set at the very end of the bar, where it’s still quiet, ale swapped out for cloudy glasses of a very fine whiskey. Dragon-slaying may be a bitch and a half, but _damn,_ the money’s worth it.

“Me?” the stranger, who has since admitted his name, — Jaskier — asks. “I’m… an apprentice of sorts, I suppose.” He smiles in a wry, fond way at his whiskey. “Learning the trade from my father.”

“And what trade would that be?”

Jaskier looks up at him. The warmth in his eyes deepens. “I… My father is… a steward, you could say.”

His heartbeat speeds a little. A little bit of a lie, Geralt thinks, but he doesn’t really mind. It’s the best part of meeting strangers, usually. The little freedoms. The ability to tell half an untruth. You didn’t have to be dirt poor and lonely. You didn’t have to be the man who’d never gone three miles from his village. The girl who never made it in the big city. THe lonely barmaid. The tired watchman. You could be brighter, fresher, a shiny new bit of silver, something to be admired, maybe. Something that made someone, for just a second, maybe even a little jealous.

“That sounds…” He pauses. “I don’t know how that sounds, actually. Do you like it?”

Jaskier chuckles. “Yes,” he admits. “Yes, I think… I think I could be quite good at it, actually. I think…” He exhales shakily. “I _thought,”_ he says, as if correcting himself, “that my father agreed with me on that score. Now, it turns out, what he thinks I’d be best as, is a goddamn _marriage chip_ to be bargained away, to appease some godawful bloodthirsty savage.”

“Ah,” Geralt says. Well, Jaskier’s trip to the bad part of town suddenly makes much more sense. “I take it you disagree.”

“Vehemently,” Jaskier murmurs, shifting on the barstool, and Geralt feels the flex of Jaskier’s thigh under his palm — which is when he realizes his hand is on Jaskier’s thigh, the lean, strong muscle shifting under his touch. His grip tightens, sudden, hungry, reflexive. Jaskier bites his bottom lip and Geralt feels his breath ratchet tight, a trebuchet ready to snap.

“Do you want to—” Jaskier whispers, voice cracking halfway through. “They have. They have rooms upstairs.”

Geralt leans the rest of the way, nudging Jaskier’s mouth with his, while his heartbeat pounds hard enough to drown out all his senses except this, the soft, whiskey-laden taste of Jaskier’s mouth, the warm puff of his exhale, the way his lips part so beautifully under the lightest swipe of his tongue. 

“Yes,” Geralt murmurs, curling a hand into that dark, soft hair. “Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooooooo we ALL lie to our one-night stands amirite or AMIRITE 🤙🏽

iii.

When Geralt went back upstairs the next day, after checking on Roach and putting some water on his face, he found Jaskier awake and sitting cross legged in front of the dead fireplace, examining the swords. It was a little before sunrise — they had managed maybe three or four hours of sleep altogether — and the room was chilly, the air crisp and new. 

“Two?” he asked Geralt. “Overkill, isn’t it?”

“Roads aren’t always safe,” Geralt replied coolly. 

“Right,” Jaskier said. His eyebrow was still notched. “And pest control is a terribly dangerous business, I’m sure.”

“As you say,” Geralt murmured. 

Jaskier glared at him. “Look, you aren’t a— a mercenary or something, are you? Or— I don’t know. An assassin?”

Geralt paused a beat. “In _what_ situation,” he asked bemusedly, “do you imagine I’d answer _yes_?” 

“I don’t know!” Jaskier protested. “Maybe if you were a really cocky psychopath! And, um, about to kill me?” He looked away, a little pink. “I don’t know,” he said again, but quieter now, and a little embarrassed. “I don’t normally do this.”

 _Yes,_ Geralt thought. _I know._

He had been sweet and pliant and so fucking hungry for it last night, arching into every kiss, his mouth soft and hot and needy, his whole body writhing when Geralt touched him, stroked him, worked him slowly, inexorably open. 

But saying that would make Jaskier even more embarrassed, and Geralt didn’t want that. What he wanted…

He stepped away from the jamb and let the door fall shut, kneeling on the rug, still towering over Jaskier, cupping his nape firm and tight. What he wanted was that mouth crushed under his. What he wanted was to kiss the breath out of him, and to pin him down onto the rug, to find out if he was still wet and sore, fuck him so hard it hurt. 

“Yes?” he asked. _Last chance to back out._

“Yes,” Jaskier whispered. “Please, come on, yes.”

  
  


iv.

They lie in the bed, in the creeping light of dawn. Jaskier is propped up on an elbow and seems to be inventorying his scars. Geralt is content to let him, drowsing idly while he lies flat on his back, sweat drying on skin, clever fingers wandering over his chest. The backs of his eyelids turn bloody crimson as sunlight slants in through the windows.

“I have to leave soon,” Jaskier says quietly.

His eyes open, and for no reason at all, he feels the bottom of his stomach drop out. “You… I see,” he manages. His voice sounds flat, a little dull, but even nonetheless, and for that, he is grateful.

But Jaskier sees through it, and his palm flattens out over Geralt’s ribs. “It’s not like that. When they realize I’m gone… My father will send people out to look for me.”

“I thought your father was a _steward_ ,” Geralt says, mocking and sharp, too cruel, and he winces immediately after, ashamed. “Sorry,” he adds gruffly.

But Jaskier’s reply is shockingly calm. “Yes, well. My father is a steward just as much as you’re in _pest control,”_ he says wryly, with half a smile, and Geralt sighs, exhaling the tension out of his shoulders. Jaskier’s fingers resume their lazy, off-beat tempo, finding the pucker of a claw wound between his fourth and fifth rib on the left, where a besomor had once slashed him open down to the lung. 

“I have to go back,” Jaskier tells him. “I don’t have a choice. The man my father wants me to wed…”

“The, ah, godawful bloodthirsty savage, wasn't it?”

Jaskier quirks a halfhearted smile. “If he finds out I’ve run for the hills, he’ll… make trouble, more likely than not. I don’t want him to… I’m— I _want_ to be loyal. And I have a duty to my— my family.”

“Looks to me like they haven’t earned that kind of loyalty,” Geralt countered. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “That’s not the point. My decisions define _me_. And I choose to define myself as a… a…” He exhales. “Besides, even if that wasn’t the case, innocents would get hurt if I didn't return. I have a… duty.”

Geralt grits his jaw. There’s no monster to fight here, and he doesn’t— Witchers don’t interfere in the affairs of men. It was the one cardinal rule Vesemir instituted right from the start. Even when those men are evil men, who have no value for their children, who will apparently sell them like bloody chattel to the most dangerous bidder. Anger burns in his gut. Geralt tamps it down forcefully. 

Not his job. 

Not his business. 

He looks away, and for a moment, all is quiet.

And then — “Maybe I could stay a while longer,” Jaskier whispers, a lilt to the end of the sentence that makes it a question, and Geralt traps his hand to his chest, relief cascading through his veins like cool, sweet rainwater in an endless desert. He snakes a free arm around Jaskier’s waist. 

“A little longer,” he agrees, and pulls him close once more.

v.

They do eventually go downstairs — Geralt had kissed down Jaskier’s sternum, rubbing day-old whiskers along the faintly defined muscles of his middle, and as if on cue, his stomach had rumbled in distress. It had shocked a laugh out of him, and then Jaskier had laughed too, and they had lain like that, Geralt's forehead resting at the bottom of his ribs, chuckling. It had snapped the spell long enough that they could pull on clothes and wipe themselves down with a couple of rags and a ewer of water. Jaskier watched with interest while Geralt finger combed his hair back and tied it off with a leather thong, and when they got down to the dining room of the tavern, they took one of the many empty tables and ordered up a feast — smoked fish and a pile of sausages, a whole loaf of crusty, golden bread, sliced and spread liberally with fresh, soft butter and gooseberry preserves. The solitary barmaid brings them a pot of tea and a jug of watered-down plum wine, and they both work their way through the food in companionable silence — right up until horse hooves clatter loudly upto the gate, and Jaskier tenses, eyes flitting nervously to the door.

When the door is flung open, Jaskier twists away, putting the door mostly at his back, hunching heavily over his plate.

Geralt watches him, and then the men who enter, their armor polished and well-made, their helms stamped with the Lettenhove emblem. “Your father’s men?” he asks Jaskier, who just folds in on himself a little more, and in subtle twisting jerk of his arm, pulls the hood of his cloak back over his head. He makes no reply.

The leader of the soldier confers quietly with the bartender, who points to their table.

“ _Damn_ it,” Jaskier hisses, jaw clenching furiously. The soldier marches down the half-empty tavern. Geralt shifts in his seat, facing the approach, so he can mask the movement of his hand, which curls around the hilt of a hidden dagger.

“I’m Captain Yerwin of the royal guard,” the soldier announces when he draws to a stop, a good half foot from the table, firm but not impolite.

“Captain,” Geralt nods.

“I’m looking for a man.”

“Oh?”

But then Yerwin says, “He wears black cloak. A silver chain with a wolf pendant. Wields dual swords. Rides a brown mare named Roach. Calls himself, ah, Geralt of Rivia. Came in from the eastern territories maybe a day, two days ago.”

“Fascinating.” Geralt smiles a hard, empty smile at the soldier. “And why would you be looking for such a man?”

“Well, he killed a dragon, or so we’re told,” Yerwin says, shrugging. He’s slouching a little, one hand tucked into his sword belt, like he can’t find it in him to give a damn. But Geralt’s watching his eyes, and Yerwin’s eyes are canny and absolutely focused. “Governor only just confirmed it this morning. Typically, this sort of thing involves a royal reward. You know.”

From the corner of his eye, he watches Jaskier’s jaw drop. Aw hell. And then, “You killed a _dragon?!_ Hang on, _YOU_ killed the dragon??!!”

And the soldier jerks like he’s been struck by a stray bolt of lightning, finally noticing Geralt’s companion, and he says, rather weakly, “Your _highness_?! What are you doing with…”

“Um,” Geralt manages. They’re both ignoring the soldier, which seems to be for the best. “Yes?”

“YOU SAID YOU WERE IN PEST CONTROL!”

“Jaskier…”

_“YOU’RE NOT IN PEST CONTROL!”_


	3. Chapter 3

vi.

The presence of royalty alters Yerwin’s plans — he orders the group to split up, so that he can personally escort Jaskier, in relative anonymity, back to the castle, while the rest of the squad can accompany Geralt. Although that’s mostly for the squad’s peace of mind than any real threat to the witcher, which is why - “You’ll come in peace?” Yerwin asks Geralt when they’re in the stableyard out back, away from his people. 

It takes a man without pride to gauge a threat so clearly. Geralt tends to be underestimated more often than not. So: “Sure,” he replies easily. “I like rewards,” before swinging into Roach’s saddle and nudging her into a steady trot. He sneaks another glance out at the road, where the prince is waiting for Yerwin, hood low over his face, the posture of his body slight, and tired. 

Jaskier doesn’t look back at him. 

The tight feeling in his throat will pass eventually, Geralt figures. It is what it is. 

vii.

He expects to be taken to the throne room, a full court watching on while the king dispenses with whatever ceremony has likely been planned. But instead he’s passed from the royal guard to a palace chamberlain to - ha - an actual steward, and then shown into a set of office chambers, currently with only one occupant, a middle-aged man with dark hair and an abstracted frown, an ink smear on his chin, and a rumpled, richly embroidered purple doublet that’s been buttoned wrong.

“Your M—” the steward begins, and the man at the table holds up a finger, scowling at the parchment before he scribbles something at the bottom and then pushes it away from himself, towards a precariously balanced heap of scrolls. 

“Yes?”

“Your Majesty,” the steward announces. “May I present the dragonslayer, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Yerwin certainly managed that quickly,” the— the king? The king murmurs. “And my son?”

“Was found in the dragonslayer’s company this morning, at Ruthie’s, your majesty. They were breaking fast together.”

He arches an inquiring eyebrow. “Indeed.”

The steward hesitates. “They… According to Yerwin’s report, until the time the palace guard arrived, they were not aware of each other’s true identity.”

The king sighs. “Well, that certainly sounds like Julian.” 

_Julian?_

He waves Geralt in. “Sit, sit,” he says, gesturing expansively at the other chairs that surround the table.

“Sire, if I may suggest it once more, I would feel much more comfortable if I could send in, not even a _whole_ squadron—”

“Honestly, Jon,” the king snaps, “if the dragonslayer wants my head on a pike, you think half a squadron is going to stop him?”

The steward’s mouth flattens into a thin, displeased line. He bows from the waist. “Shall I send in the scribes, then, your majesty?”

“Not yet.”

Geralt drags out the chair from opposite to the king, and takes his seat. He stays quiet.

The king does not look away from him. He has, Geralt notes clinically, Jaskier’s eyes.

“Leave us.”

The steward walks out the door, backwards and half-bowing, and gently clicks the door shut.

And then they are alone.

viii.

“No man could have killed the dragon.”

Geralt smiles thinly. “I’m not a man.”

“No…. You’re one of them, aren’t you?” the king continues, in his peaceable, contemplative tone. Geralt waits for him to say it: _monster, mutant, sub-human, freak._ But the king says, “You’re one of Vesemir’s boys.”

He can’t hide the surprise blooming on his face. “You know Vesemir.”

The king positively twinkles at him. “We went to school together. Oxenfurt, you know. Back when it was quite the thing, to send your heir out for a few years, acquire a little book-learning. Brilliant fellow, even back then. Blew away all our teachers.” He quirks a smile at whatever stupid as hell expression is probably stuck on Geralt’s face. “Oh, he was absolutely cracked in the head, of course, but he never let _that_ get in his way.” He chuckles fondly. “I can’t _believe_ he managed it. He talked about it, about, about expanding the limits of human potential, but I never thought he would actually… You — it’s truly… a marvel.”

Geralt stared at him, befuddled. “But. Vesemir is _ninety._ ”

The king lifts one shoulder and drops it. “As am I.” When Geralt stares at him blankly some more, the king adds, “Elf blood. I have some selkie too, a little huldra. We’re all mongrels, I’m afraid, we Pankratzes. It’s a wonder the people haven’t all taken to the streets yet.”

“I… see.”

The king grins some more. “I’m sure you do.” 

“Jask— Jul— The, the prince seems to be under the impression we’re getting married.”

The king levels him an impatient look. “Well, that’s the traditional reward, isn’t it? Half a kingdom, and the king’s firstborn’s hand in marriage.”

“You’re… You want to give me half your kingdom?” Geralt asks, dazed and incredulous. _What the hell?_

“I don’t want to,” the king says irritably. “But it's— it’s what is owed. It’s what dragonslayers are owed. It’s what the Balance demands. What the hell am I supposed to do instead? Send _more_ of my knights to die at your hands? I lost enough to that overgrown bloody reptile out east, I’ll not sacrifice any more.”

“Well, the Balance can eat it,” Geralt snaps.

“ _Watch_ it, boy—”

“I don’t _want_ your kingdom! What part of that don’t you—” He exhales angrily. Thinks of the hard, miserable look on Jaskier’s face last night. _Godawful bloodthirsty savage._ He had been talking about Geralt. And Geralt won’t— won’t do that to him. 

“What kind of _monster_ wants to marry someone unwilling?” he demands harshly. Something hard is gritting his throat, but he chokes out the word. “What kind of hellspawned son of a bitch wants to rip a kingdom in half and bleed it dry for its riches? I just got done _saving_ your people! You think I did it so I could fuck their up lives up again?! I don’t WANT half your bloody kingdom! And I don’t _WANT!_ To marry! Your son!”

And he’s so caught up in himself that he doesn’t quite hear the door push open. So it catches him like a sudden, sparking shock, when, into the silence, a voice says, flat and unemotional, “I see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh la la! Quel mystere!!! Quel suspense!!!!!!!! What could POSSIBLY happen next!!!!!!!!!! *twirls moustache and jetes off into the distance!*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friends, romans, countrymen.......this is what we call the post-it-so-you-can-finally-delete-it-from-ur -drafts-folder school of writing. as you can see, it produces results of.................varying quality.

ix.

Geralt half-asses an excuse, and dashes out of the room after Jaskier, following him down a stairwell, catching up with him in just enough time to tug him, not ungently, into a tiny balconette off the turret. The view is stunning, the city unfolding far below them, people the size of rice grains, buildings that look like toys from the clifftop. 

But neither of them pay much attention to the view.

“What?” Jaskier demands, yanking his wrist free. Geralt lets him go, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace, backing up as far as the balconette will allow him.

“You’re angry with me.”

Jaskier exhales, sharp and hard, and when he looks back at Geralt, the set of his face has changed entirely. He’s calm and remote, the mirror-like clarity of a winter lake. “Of course not,” he says. “You’re doing the chivalrous thing. My people and I are in your de—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Geralt says angrily. “Don’t _do_ that. We— This is what you _wanted._ ”

“Yes,” Jaskier sneers. “And you are generosity itself. Thanks ever so,for—”

“What the hell was I _supposed_ to do? We had— We don’t know each— We’ve only had one night! Would you have preferred it if—” He sighs, and turns to face the railing, gripping the cool, wrought-iron with both hands. “You’ll recall, _you_ were the one in a hurry to leave today morning. I…. I wanted you to stay.”

“Oh yeah?” Jaskier crosses his arms and leans back against the pale, sandstone wall. “For how long was _that_ going to last.”

The question is rhetorical, that much is obvious. But he answers anyway — “I… don’t know yet.” Geralt turns enough to look at him. His voice is soft, too cut open, too honest, and he _knows_ that, he can’t— he can’t do anything about it. And the thing is, if he doesn’t tell the truth now, then… then _when—_ “I wanted a chance to figure that out. I still do.”

Jaskier swallows and breaks their gaze, his arms uncrossing as pink blooms on his cheeks. Geralt, cautiously, steps closer. It’s not much of a step — the balconette is maybe a foot deep, four feet across, a curtained archway hiding them from the gaze of anyone in the corridor beyond. Geralt palms his hips, and Jaskier shivers under his touch, bites his bottom lip hard enough to make it go white, and shuts his eyes.

Something hot and wanting swoops through Geralt’s stomach.

“Say yes,” he says, asks, pleads, cupping his cheek, stroking the fine-grained texture of his skin hungrily.

“Yes,” Jaskier says, and leans in close, fingers twisting in his hair, crumpling the front of his shirt, “yes,” their mouths sliding hotly together, “yes.”

The sun beats down on them, hot and relentless, and Geralt swallows the noises Jaskier makes, faint little hitches and groans—

“Is that your real name?” he gasps, wrenching himself away.

Jaskier’s mouth is kiss-swollen and beautiful, and his eyes are hazed. “What?”

“Jaskier? Is that— Your father called you Julian.”

“Can we _not_ speak about my _father_ just right—”

“Is it your _real name?”_ Geralt demands, hand clenching convulsively on his hip. 

“Yes, it…” Jaskier’s tongue flashes, wet and pink, licking at his bruised lower lip. “It was my mother’s nickname for me, when I was a boy. I didn’t… I didn’t lie about the things that mattered.” He pauses. “But THEN, you knew that, didn’t you?”

Geralt shrugs. “I figured you were a rich kid, slumming it in the bad part of town. Figured I had a week, tops, with you, before the, ah… everything caught up and you left.” _And you left me,_ but he doesn't say that.

“That’s what you wanted from me?” Jaskier asks, voice rough and cracking. “A week?” 

Geralt can't help but remember was the shy, embarrassed downturn of his face in the pale, dawn light. _I don’t do this often,_ Jaskier has said. 

“That’s all I thought I could get,” Geralt whispers to him, all raw, scraped-apart honesty.

“What if…” His tongue swipes over his lips again, leaves them soft and gleaming. Wet. “What if _I_ wanted… What if _I_ wanted more.”

“There’s… There’s something killing the children in Ford, out west,” Geralt suggests quietly. “Before I met you, I was— planning to leave tonight.”

But it makes Jaskier shrink. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t— Of course—”

“No,” Geralt says, realizing. “No, I meant— Come with me.” Jaskier looks at him, eyes huge and luminous, a sunset in the spring, all rich untouched blue. Geralt’s thumb finds the soft dip just beneath his mouth, presses gently into his lip, his chin, the line of his jaw. He steals a kiss, and another, whispering and gentle, half-there and then gone, and Jaskier’s shivering into him, clutching at his shoulders, their hips catching and sliding, grinding lazy and graceless. “Come with me,” he whispers into Jaskier’s ears.

Jaskier gasps, low and sweet, and Geralt cups the gorgeous, firm rise of his ass, pulls him in so tight he can feel the hot, generous bulge of his cock right through his trousers. “Come with—” he manages, before Jaskier sinks sharp little teeth into the straining tendon of his throat, and then Geralt has to shudder and break, lift him up and pin him to the wall, whole body tightening as they rut together.

Jaskier says something, he can’t quite catch it. Their mouths slide wetly together, come apart again, sacrificed to the rhythm, hot puffs of air on Geralt’s cheek, and he’s close, so close. Jaskier’s head falls back hard against the wall, and his throat is working, and Geralt remembers how it had looked, in the silver moonlight, glowing, elegant, beautiful. He kisses it, kisses the bob of his Adam’s apple, the muscle flexing as he says—

He says, and Geralt listens, because, “Yes,” he whispers, hands curling into Geralt’s hair, his shoulders, his back. Their bodies move like one, and Geralt finds the angle to crush their mouths together. “You’ll stay?” Geralt asks begs pleads — and the reply comes, sweeter than gold, than half a kingdom, than any ransom a dragonslayer could demand.

Jaskier smiles at him, and his eyes are dark, and and his mouth is lovely, and he says, “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! if you liked it, remember to hit kudos <3  
> find me on tumblr [@ **pasdecoeur**](https://pasdecoeur.tumblr.com/)


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